


Thrill Me Again

by hurinhouse



Category: White Collar
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 02:20:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3191639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurinhouse/pseuds/hurinhouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's like riding a bike, with the right person</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thrill Me Again

Harsh air slices into his throat but the race is exhilarating, surrounded by green, and dark blue with diamonds above. He can't stop grinning, the rush is so heady, thrusting him past obstacles of pain or barrier, breaching corners, sprinting straightaways. It's always this way, but today he shares it. 

Her hand warms his and he turns to see her eyes alight in wonder. A mirror. Maybe there's some fear there but it's the sweet kind that sparks the heart and asks for more, electrifying their breakneck limbs with a high far above the rest of the world. He can't believe how lucky he is that she not only loves him, but is as thrilled by the con, by the chase, as he. He never thought to have this, to feel this again.

They stop, pushing back into the hedge as much as the thorns will allow, and listen. The shouts are far back. The man doesn't have dogs, he's probably pushing sixty and it's the middle of the night; they won't be caught as long as they find their way out of the maze. She laughs and he sees the joy in her face, the 'I can't believe we just did that' in her smile. He buries his face in her hair, soft and luxurious and now familiar, and it doesn't matter that it's blond and it's not _hers_. It doesn’t hurt to think of _her_ anymore because his heart has been snared anew. 

"You were right. This is the best way to spend my husband's money." Her lips are as warm as the reverent hands that cradle his face. He gets lost in them, in her.

\- - - 

"I swear I saw that Covington widow. I've seen her on the society pages. Never seen the guy she was with, though." 

A twinge of dread runs through him but he has to ask…

"Can you describe him?"

"Hard to see at night but… dark hair, model-type. Young." 

Shit.

The decaying old mansion and grounds still look usable. If they spruce the place up a bit-

"Look, Agent… Burke was it? We're already six months late on the mortgage. This isn't just an old museum; we also teach art to low-income kids. You've got to catch these people."

That just doesn't make sense. This isn't his C.I.'s M.O. It now makes sense that he'd asked for today off, though. He wishes NYPD wasn't here.

"Calm down, Mr. Hammond. What exactly did they steal?"

"What little petty cash I had left! Maybe a thousand. They got into my safe."

Jones' voice rings out from the opposite side of the room,"Peter, there's seventy grand in the safe."

The old man's face turns white. "What? I've never had more than five thousand in there and that was twenty years ago."

"It's there. Also this." Jones holds out the money and a folded paper, an origami paintbrush.

Peter smiles. So he has made a difference. And not only him, it seems.

"Looks like there's no crime to report here. Correct, Mr. Hammond?"

"Yes, Sir. Sorry to have wasted your time."

"Not a problem."


End file.
